Closer
by CrossedScarsX
Summary: As Gimli lay dying, Legolas reflects. "Gimli, are we close enough, yet?" RATING CHANGED.
1. When It Began

A/N: Before I get a parade of reviews stating that Gimli is out of character, let me state that this Gimli is strictly based upon the BOOK, where he is far less silly than in Peter Jackson's films. Tolkien's Gimli, while often humorous, still displays a great deal of eloquence and intelligence that the films almost entirely ignore. He is a great warrior, who's shortcomings are often exaggerated when measured against the physical prowess of people like Aragorn and Legolas. (Legolas has unfair advantage in EVERYTHING...damn elf 'sleep runs' so he doesn't even need to friggin stop when the three of them are chasing down the orcs for several days straight. Under normal standards of measure, Gimli performed miraculously.)

"**Closer"**

I watch you now, as your breaths become shorter. Your small form is shuddering as your final moments approach. You smile at me. You are trying to comfort me. Foolish dwarf. As if anything could grant me comfort now. I do not chastise your attempt. I simply draw you nearer and press my face into your thick gray hair. I hold you tightly, as though to embrace you would stop the end from coming. If I told you I was afraid, Gimli, what would you say? I can't bring myself to say it aloud, so I will never know your answer. I feel your hand rest upon my encircling arm. You are pulling me closer, like you always do. We've been pulling each other closer and closer for so many years now...

In Lothlorien, it began. Our hostility hitherto our arrival is but a queer memory now, but then it had seemed important. Both our prides and familial loyalties played their part in our mutual misgivings. It was in that haven of silver and gold that our resolve was broken, and our hearts turned to friendship. It still bothers me, my feelings before that moment we stood before the Lady of Galadhrim. Indeed, deep down I shared Lord Celeborn's anger to the Dwarves—nay, even to you, my friend—and I was just as quick in my heart as he to blame you for Mithrandir's fall in Moria. When she chastised Celeborn for his harsh words to you, Lady Galadriel could just as well have been speaking to me. And you, Gimli, proceeded to defy all preconceived notions and displayed a humility and eloquence that rivaled any Elf. I have never felt so ashamed as in that moment. My kind is paramount in our wisdom—yet there you were, a dwarf, reminding us the meaning of courtesy.

It was guilt that led me to invite you to explore the Golden Wood with me. I remember your face, so full of skepticism, as you accepted my offer. I could not blame you. There had been no friendly words between us. Your acceptance further pricked my conscience, for you did so without accusation, and henceforth treated me as a brother.

That first day we traveled to the eastern ends of Lorien, traversing between wooded glade and flowing waters. I was awash with excitement, pointing out each wonder as we found them. A particular flower, a specific pool of crystal waters, an ancient trail—all were worthy of praise. At one point you began to chuckle. A light and deep rumbling escaped your throat, first in spurts, then flowed like the babbling of the surrounding waterfalls. I asked you what was so funny, worrying you might be making sport of me.

"I just realized," you told me, "the way you are gushing over every blasted leaf. I must have looked just as silly to you, going on and on the way I did in Moria."

There was an awkward silence. I don't know how long it lasted. Your face had taken on a dark shade. You turned away, and I scrambled so say something.

"Gimli!"

You turned back to me.

"I never said...back in Moria..." For some reason I felt foolish and words were slow to come. "I'm sorry, about your kinsmen. I should have said something earlier...I was—"

You silenced me with a wave of your hand and a smile. You told me to forget it. Then: "I think, Master Elf, that is the first time you've ever called me by my name. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten it."

I searched my memory. Was that true? I laughed and replied, "Tell me, Master Dwarf, do you remember my name?"

"Legolas."

The sound of my name upon your lips gladdened my heart. We continued our exploration of Lorien, and our conversation turned into friendly banter. In the days that followed, we discovered much about each other. I fully realized how very Dwarfish you could truly be: loud, brazen, and filled with a love for drink. But more than that, I came to understand the other side of Dwarves: your keen eye for beauty and fine craftsmanship. Your criticisms of Elven architecture and art were insightful (though often brashly stated) and even stirred pleasant conversation from some of the Elves who could speak in common tongue. You truly surprised everyone.

Soon I began to feel more at ease with you than any of my kin. I admitted this to you one night. "Well, Master Elf, it makes sense when you think about it. You Elves are too concerned with appearances."

"Ha! And you Dwarves do not care enough!" I exclaimed.

"Not true, Master Legolas. We simply place emphasis on different things. You Elves spend so much time pruning yourselves inside and out, you have forgotten how to relax. I think you like my company because you needn't concern yourself about what a Dwarf thinks."

"Nay, Gimli! I value your opinion, greatly!"

"Aye, I think now you do. But not so, before. And because of that, we can walk as equals, and now I will not judge you even if you do look like a drowned squirrel!"

"What? I don't look like a drowned—Ai!" You launched me into one of the cascading pools.

"Now you do!" You laughed mischievously, and I glared at you and rose up to snatch your arm and force you to join me into the cold pond with a great splash. I laughed as you resurfaced, sputtering. "And now, Master Dwarf, we are truly equals!"

You regained your footing and laughed wickedly. The water fight that ensued was an immature and uncouth display—and I did not care. For that moment, nothing else existed; no war, no Sauron, no ring. All that mattered was besting you in that merry battle.


	2. Visitation

A/N: Here I get a little more romantic with these two. Taking a few liberties here. Again, I am working according to the book. This chapter, and those to follow, will continue the pattern established chapter one. Moving on!

I love you. You know it already—we've said it enough in the past. I don't say it now, because it would feel like 'goodbye' and I'm not ready for that. You seem to relax in my arms. I realize you are sleeping. I untangle myself from you and lay you back upon your bed. I kiss your forehead. I think about a faded scar there. It only shows a little, and recedes into your hairline. I trace it with my fingertip.

I had lost track of you in Helm's Deep. When Aragorn told me you'd been separated in the fray, fear leaped into my heart. I tried to cover my fear, saying I wished to share with you my latest tally. Truth be told, I could barely keep focus. I only killed two more that night. When we found you the next day, I thought I might faint at the sight of the bloodied bandage wrapped around your head. But you were the same old Gimli, glib, smiling, and more than happy to inform me of your final count. You had beaten me by one.

It was strange for me. I had never cared for a non-elf before, and I was suddenly stuck with thoughts of your mortality. I hovered around you for days after, when you refused to take rest. Even when it was Aragorn dressing your wounds, I was never far off. I refused to let you ride with anyone else.

We made our promise in Fanghorn. You were terrified of the forest, and for your sake I rode near as possible to Mithrandir as our group passed through all to quickly. How I yearned to explore them! I told you of my desire, and tried to sooth your anxiety. You argued that the caves of Helm's Deep were more magnificent than any forest. Despite my skepticism, the words that dripped from your lips moved me to make you the bargain: Come with me to truly see Fanghorn, and we would share the wonders of your caves. In the end, I conceded. Your Dwarven appreciation of beauty proved too keen. But I think, more than your caverns of wonder, you took my breath.

Gimli, how is it, that you always manage to surprise me? Elves oft describe Dwarves as uncomely, but I challenge any living being to find naught but beauty as you beheld the Glittering Caves. I am certain my gaze rested upon you more than the elegant clouds of colored stone spires that cradled us, and I was relieved that you were too distracted to notice. These feelings were new, and I was more than a little perplexed. When we emerged our friends asked my reaction. I was too flustered, and pointed them to you to describe it. You were bristling with pride until I reminded you that we were off to Fanghorn, as you had promised.

You fear of the place had not diminished. You sat in front of me, on my insistence, so you could better see. As we approached, riding upon Arod, you were doing your best not to quiver in fright. Every shadow was cause for alarm, and you held your axe tight against your belt.

"Gimli, my friend, worry not! Does not the forest feel lighter now? Let us dismount and make camp. You will feel better on your feet."

"Aye, let me off this beast. I hunger for solid ground. Yet I shall endure riding a bit longer, if only Arod decide to stray away from these woods again!"

"Treebeard himself gave us welcome, my friend. So long as only Orcs are cut with your blade, you have nothing to fear."

"I gave my word to these trees before, and I say it again: I shall cut no timber here. Be that as it may, I pray you take charge of the kindling."

I laughed. "I will, to ease you mind. Come. It is hours until nightfall. Let us continue." We went onwards, deeper into the trees. I led Arod, and you stayed close to me. We did not hurry. I wanted to savor my surroundings—to listen, to see, to hear, to smell, to touch. You grew frustrated, and asked if I knew what I was doing, and grumbled about 'flighty elves with no plans'.

We found a clearing and I allowed Arod to graze while we made camp. There was a small outcrop of boulders, and you instantly set up your sleeping pallet and sat to rest with your back to it. I joined you.

"Friend, what happened to that Dwarven endurance of yours? Surely you are not yet tired." I teased.

"Legolas, you may see beauty in this wood, yet I cannot, anxious as I am."

"Are you really so miserable?" I asked, for by now I was worried that this might truly have been too much for you.

You sighed. "I already told you. 'Where you go, I will go' and that shall never change. But I implore you my friend, let the next place you go be more fitting to a Dwarf!"

I smiled. "You shall pick our next destination."

"Erebor." You said without thought.

"Revenge for bringing you here?"

"Nay, friend. Naught but the desire to share my world with you, just as you now share this with me. Legolas, come, make me understand."

You were facing your fear for me. I was honored and humbled. I told you to lay down next to me upon the grass. "There's music all around us" I said. "Quiet, and listen. Do you not hear the wind in the trees? The music of the birds floating all around us? They are the messengers of Manwe, his ears and eyes. His song echoes. Hear it."

"Manwe calls to Elves, Legolas. Not to Dwarves."

"Shhh. The trees are dancing to the sound. It is Yavanna, mother of all that grows. The fruits of her labor are collected here. I wager this forest may know her touch first-hand, old as it is. And the Ents, should we meet them, perhaps they may tell us the tale."

I took your hand. "The trees extend their roots deep into the earth, twisting, embracing even the rocks you hold so dear. They are bonded as Yavana was to Aule, her husband, steadfast master of the earth beneath our feet, and creator of the first Dwarves. Does it not strike you, Gimli, the irony? Elves of the trees and Dwarves of the earth distrust each other, yet our origins are tied?"

"I would see the friendship restored, just as we have demonstrated. It can be done, in time." you replied. You seemed more relaxed, and turned towards me.

I asked how you felt. Your answer puzzled me for some time after. You squeezed my hand and said:

"Closer."


	3. Under the Mountain

A/N: Holy Crap. This has been a difficult chapter. I seriously have been working hard on it off and on since the day I posted the last chapter, but there was so much I wanted to do with it, that I had to stop myself and rewrite and omit and add in like CRAZY. So far this is the longest chapter...I am trying to keep these reflections to about 3 pages each, but this just kept GOING. I kept coming up with all these great little nuggets that I wanted to write about. I'm possibly going to expand on this chapter as a separate story, told a more traditional Third Person style. (Seems like I really enjoy this whole first person/sometimes second person writing style. I'm weird. Maybe I feel like it helps me step into the characters brains or something...) Alright. Enough chin wagging. Or finger wiggling. Whichever.

* * *

**Closer**

Chapter 3

* * *

Sometime in the night, breath left your body. I am trying so very hard to wake you. I cry out your name, but for all my effort no sound escapes my throat, like the noise is eaten by the cold dark void which presses in on me..._suffocating_...

I wake with a start, and curse myself for having drifted off to sleep. You are still here, sleeping, and breathing. Alive.

Someone has left food on the beside table. Who put it there? Mithrandir? No, that didn't seem right. He had indeed been among the many who have been checking in on us these last few days. Maybe The Lady, or a servant of her's left it? I sense it is more for me than for you. I have not been eating lately, and more than once you have prodded me to take nourishment. Someone else has no doubt taken notice, but I know not who, nor do I care as I hear you whisper something in your sleep. I cannot make it out, but I take your hand all the same and reply with a soft tune. There are no words. It is something like a lullaby that I only vaguely remember from my earliest years. Your hands are cold, and I rub them in my own. I should get another blanket. There is a chest of linens by the foots of the bed, and I search for something suitable. Inside, I find a memory of my first visit to Erebor.

When we arrived from Fanghorn, the evidence of the battle with Saruman still lingered. In true Dwarven fashion, your people had already made much progress in restoring the splendorous gates and walls. The carvings and statues at the entrance were broken, rubble was being piled and sorted. Craftsman were already out, designing grander and more majestic details to replace the old.

We received many a stare as we rode in on Arod. Workers forgot their tasks to take time to gawk at the site of an Elf and Dwarf together on horseback. By now, this was not so strange an occurrence, but on this occasion I worried that you might be unnerved at your own kin's reaction.

"Let them think what they will," you said. "They will get over it soon enough." You craned your neck to look back and smile at me. "There are only two people I am concerned with accepting you here: Dain, and my father. Beyond them, no opinions matter."

You father had been on your mind much during our journey. You admitted that you were anxious for news of him, but all we knew at the time was that Erebor had seen battle, and prevailed. I knew Mirkwood was no less effected by the war, but as promised, we had traveled to your home first. Something told me that you and your father should be our priority. My own father, King Thranduil, was a stubborn fellow, and I doubted he would not be waiting for me with a warm greeting, followed by "Why are you late?" Yes, there was no way he had not survived intact.

Sentries stopped us at what remained of the main gates.

"Gimli, son of Gloin, at your service!"

There came happy shouting as your kinsmen recognized you, and they gathered about us. Despite their joy at your return, my presence still put them ill at ease. More than one questioned my presence.

"The Elf is Legolas. He is a trusted friend, and he is my guest. Until the King says otherwise, he shall be treated with all the respect and hospitality Dwarves can offer." Your voice was commanding, and the other Dwarves obeyed. Up to then, I'd rarely seen you act with such authority. It almost made me laugh, to remember that you were, in fact, a Lord amongst your people. I stifled the outburst, lest I seem rude. "Now then, friends, where may I find Dain, and my father?"

But Dain was dead. His son, Thorin the Third, ruled in his place. Messengers were sent ahead of us to inform him of our arrival. Word was sent to your father as well, and I noted the relief on your face when we learned of his good health.

Thorin, I found out, was your cousin, and a close friend. He was but 13 years your senior and was indeed overjoyed to see you—almost as overjoyed as your father. Gloin was a bundle of excitement and practically danced at the sight of you. He gathered you up in a great fatherly embrace, followed by a great slamming of his forehead to yours. It was one greeting I would never get used to.

Thorin was far more accepting of our friendship than Gloin who, once he remembered that I was the son of his former jailer, began to protest. But you were steadfast, and declared that you would not stay in Erebor if I were not welcome.

I was flush with embarrassment. I later scolded you for giving your father such an ultimatum. It seemed underhanded. Of course your father would welcome me after such a threat! By Elbereth! I believe he might have welcomed Thranduil himself! There was no honor in using your father's love against him.

You were angry after my admonishment.

"Do you think me so petty, Master Elf?" you asked with fire in your eyes. "Do you take me for a child? I do not say such things for the sake of gaining the upper hand!" Then softly you said, "I meant it, Legolas. I will not stay in a place where you are not welcome. I would not be content, otherwise."

My heart quickened at your confession. I felt there was more, but nothing further was said.

Luckily, your father did not make war against me. Nor did he welcome me. But tolerance was taken for what it was, and you showed me your home. You shared your rooms with me, as there were none to spare for guests, Elf or not; too damaged were many of the dwellings. Given your status, you had space to spare. You insisted I take your bed, as I was your guest, and it was truly the only thing large enough to accommodate me. I almost argued that I didn't actually need to 'sleep', but you were trying so hard to keep up with the customs of Dwarven hospitality that I held my tongue. You were contented with a smaller lounge. Gloin stayed to his own chambers, but despite his coolness to me, he did not shy away from meals in the Great Halls. He joined us if only to converse with you, to learn more about what happened with the Ring. I think your stories improved his opinion of me, but he did not try to show it.

Despite the war-ravaged state of the halls, Erebor was still impressive. Each day you led me somewhere new. We fell into a habit of helping with repairs in each new section. The other Dwarves grew used to me as I helped them shovel debris and ran buckets of water from place to place. No doubt they found it entertaining to have an elf scurrying about doing 'dirty work', but soon they grew accustomed to me, and began to speak with me openly. The kingdom's beauty and the loosening tensions notwithstanding, I ventured outside often. I yearned for soft breezes and light as much as you desired the comfort of good bedrock. Sometimes you went with me. Other times, you were busy trying to find the most perfect jeweled settings for Lady Galadriel's hair. On those occasions I would come back to find you perched at a work table, bidding me to give you my opinion of your latest design.

The end of the first week spent in Erebor, Thorin declared a feast in our honor. Had circumstances allowed it, he would have held it on our arrival, but as it was, preparations had to be made. It was truly a Dwarven celebration, complete with food, spirits, music, and more spirits. Songs were sung with a vivaciousness that made even the most cheerful of Elven music sound dull. The hammering of drums was nearly drowned out by the sound of dancing feet—my own among them, as you pulled me up join in the group dances. I could not say no. All eyes were upon me as I began, quite ungracefully, gradually learning the rhythms. Soon I was just as overcome with the same fervor of the crowd. You were right in Lorien. Elves are too obsessed with appearances. It was only when I forgot myself that I began to fit in. I drank merrily. I joined in songs to which I scarcely knew the words—some so crass that I blushed to think of my behavior afterward. By the end of the evening, my head was spinning. Everything was too loud, too hot, too crowded—and it was perfect. But all good things come to an end, making room for new beginnings.

The party had dwindled. You and I were practically stumbling over ourselves as we headed for your quarters, dodging prone Dwarves who hadn't managed to make it back to their own dwellings. You joked about my 'Elvish grace' as I fumbled, and I laughed mercilessly when you fell through the door to your rooms.

"What was that about grace, Master Dwarf?"

"Alas! It seems the very mountain is against me. It quakes beneath my feet, I am certain!"

"Alas, indeed! What times are these, that stone should betray a Son of Durin?" I tried to help you up, but we both ended up on the floor. Another fit of laughter overtook us.

"Perhaps, we should get up?" I suggested, still laying on the fur rug. "Or is the floor the traditional sleeping place after a Dwarven feast?"

"I should say it is! It would save me my dignity."

I turned on my side, face to face with you. "I would not question it. Far be it from me to infringe on your traditions! I shall most graciously stay on the floor."

So we stayed there, in companionable silence, laying on the floor like fools. Minutes passed, maybe even an hour. Your eyes were shut, and your body was relaxed. I stared at you for some time. There was a hint of a smile on your face. A soft snore announced your slumber. Soon I was feeling stable enough to get up, so I rose and made my way to the bed and sat. Warm furs and feathered pillows made for a restful sleeping place—one that you needed more than I. Determining myself to be sound of body, I decided I would not allow you to spend the night passed out on the floor. Certainly, you would curse me in the morning for treating you like a babe, but I did not care. What was that saying you mortals are so fond of? 'You will catch your cold death?' Or at least, I thought that was it. I did not know. Elves do not suffer mortal sickness. And although the bedrock walls were softened with pelts and great tapestries, the stone chambers could still get cold.

Despite my best attempts to not disturb your slumber, you gave a snort and opened one eye. "...not a child, Master Elf."

"Certainly not, Master Dwarf. Do not worry. I will speak of this to no one." I tried to steady myself against the wall when you pushed me away, only to find the large wall hanging which loomed over the bed. It came down, its thick fabric completely covering us. It took a moment for the both of us to realize what had happened, and any grumblings about your dignity were forgotten as we emerged from the tapestry. It was of deep blues and greens, with borders of black, red, and gold designs. Gold runes were stitched perfectly among the patterns.

"Blasted thing. I'll have to secure it more tightly," you muttered as you examined it. You were wide awake now.

"It's beautiful," I commented. "What do the runes say?"

"Hm? Oh. It is the names of my fore-bearers, directly descended from Durin. Right there is my father's name."

"Which one is yours?"

"It isn't on here."

I frowned. "Why not?"

You looked sheepish. "Well...tradition dictates that my name be sewn in after I marry, by my wife. But as I have none, well, it won't be added. At least, not until I die."

"You are so certain you will not marry?" Funny, how the thought of you marrying eclipsed thoughts of your death. I was too anxious to hear your answer to pay much attention to how you hid a blush.

"Well...I mean...there aren't many Dwarf women...and most Dwarves have married by my age, or they do not at all. I only have one chance, you know?"

"What do you mean?" I had never thought about the mating customs of Dwarves before. Elves mated for life. Remarrying was practically unheard of. Adultery was unthinkable.

"Dwarves only love once. It is Aule's design, I suppose. For us, it is all or nothing. We will covet our love as we do our gold. But woe it is to the Dwarf who's love is one-sided! For he will never love another."

Unable to stop the question, I blurted out, "Have you loved?"

The surprise on your face was unmasked. After a moment of awkward mumbling you finally answered, cautiously. "It is something I have yet to discover." You were unsettled. I apologized for my audacity. Not much was said for the rest of the night. You rolled up the tapestry and set it aside.

I did not see it again, until this very moment.

It is softer than I remembered. The colors are more vivid in the daylight than in the firelight of Erebor. The runes shine brightly and seem alive beneath my fingers. I feel the corner's of my mouth lift. I don't think I've smiled in days, but the memory, and the thoughts of all that followed has lifted my spirits. I drape the heavy fabric upon you, and adjust it till it is secure, cradling you.

_Like a child... _

This time, you remain sleeping.


	4. Finding Words

Closer

A/N:

Ok, I lied. Chapter 4 is longer than chapter 3. It kept trying to be a narrative again, and then I had so much that I wanted to say, and I kept writing and cutting. Iseriously have about 8 or 9 pages of random crap I kept writing for it, but finally forced myself to cut it all down, and rethink the format. Here's the result. It's probably stupidly filled with errors and such, but I seriously can't look at the chapter anymore, and I wanted to post it. This looks like this might be the only chapter story I might ever actually finish on here. XD

And, oh, dear god, I wrote smut. Mild smut. But smut. I have never written any sort of sex before. I'm floored. And I really want to make and smutty extended edition of this first time thing, because it's short, and I think more smut needs to exist for these two. I feel dirty. But in a good way. This might be overly sappy, but damnit, I like the warm fuzzies.

Also, I fully admit that I love having Gimli ride in front on their horse. It just feels like a more typical riding position when I see it in old movies—where the driver of the horse puts a girl in front of him and rides off. I'm figuring that during battle, it made more sense for Legolas to ride front, so he could fire his bow, and Gimli could catch stranglers with is axe. But on less dangerous travels, Gimli in front allows for easier conversation and even allows Gimli a more comfortable ride, since Legolas' arms would provide stability for him.

Sorry for rambling.

* * *

Ch. 4

Two days after the celebration at Erebor, you declared it time for us to travel onward to Mirkwood. There was no warning, simply "It's time we were off. We've things to do and see. Come, come!"

I had no idea what was wrong—for surely something had happened to have changed your mood so drastically—but you would only insist that we hurry. I wanted to know what was going on, but the more I pried the more agitated you became. You practically growled at me in frustration, and shouted that your business was your own.

There was a heavy weight in my chest when you yelled at me. We had not quarreled like this since before Lothlorien. Nay, the tone in your voice was far more harsh than anything I had ever heard of you. You were lashing out, like an animal in a cage. First I was startled, then hurt, then angry. And soon I found myself just as vocal in my outrage.

"Curse your stubbornness! Let it never be said that secrecy is lost among the dwarves. You would remain silent ere you say what troubles you to save face, whilst you treat friend as foe! Tell me, Master Dwarf, what wrong I have committed, that you so distrust me?"

Your face fell like an avalanche. I instantly regretted my words, for then your eyes held naught but pain. You beseeched my pardon.

"Legolas, I cannot tell you as I am now. I have not the words."

Despite my feelings, I laughed aloud. "Gimli, son of Gloin, struck dumb? I did not think to ever see the day speech would fail you, dear friend."

I was hoping to lighten the mood. Somehow, it was not the right thing to say. You grew yet more gloomy. Kneeling, I clasped a hand to your shoulder in both apology and forgiveness. "I shall not force it from you, Gimli. I shall only pray you find the words ere long." Your only reply was to clasp my shoulder in return and meet my gaze.

We rode on. The journey started with heavy silence. It was several miles before you felt inclined to speak again, and when you did it was to ask about Mirkwood, or talk about the stories you'd heard about the place. I confirmed and denied your inquiries with mostly one word answers. Soon you began delving into stories about your youth, going with your father on trading expeditions, how you'd never seen an elf until your first trip, and your father had refused to let you speak to any, except when negotiating a price.

I listened closely to every word. I had grown to love the sound of your voice, especially when you went on your diatribes. Your rumbling baritone and flowing descriptions enchant me as much as an Elven song. In this instance, I found myself leaning forward, narrowing what little space that existed between us. Before I was fully aware of it, one hand had ceased to grip Arod's mane, and was instead snaking around your waist, and my head dipped to rest atop your fiery mane. Your words stopped, alerting me to my actions. My heart pounded, and my body froze. I had unintentionally overstepped some boundary, but to pull back seemed a more severe taboo. So I moved not. I breathed not. I waited.

"Legolas?"

"Yes?" I croaked with a sudden dry mouth.

"I'm not angry with you."

I let out a deep sigh. You thought I was fretting over our fight.

"I know."

I removed my hand and quickened our pace. The conversation ceased, but this time the silence was not so heavy.

If I had deemed Fanghorn lightened in wake of this war, it was nothing to the change in my home. The darkness that poisoned our land had been purged, and light and life filled the trees. The spawn of Ungoliant were moving on, and the remaining webs were breaking. I was filled with joy, for I had not seen such swells of life in the forrest since I was Gimli's height. I was glad that Gimli was there to see my childhood home in such health, and would not be subject to the darkness that had once sheathed its glory.

My father was alive and happy at my return. As yours had been in Erebor, my kin was shocked to see a Dwarf in my company. My father did not speak against your presence, save for the initial surprise, but I could tell his words of welcome were strained. I could not help but notice the way he looked upon you with disdain, like your were some fly in his soup, and it left me feeling irate. I heard faint whispers among those of my father's court, snickering in Sindarin, incredulous that I had brought a Dwarf back home. When Thranduil inquired the details of our quest, his attention was only to me. I knew then how you felt in Erebor, for I found myself toying with words, seeking to impress upon him your great deeds, just as you had done so of me to Gloin. I wanted no one to doubt you. I made haste to tell him of Lothlorien, and you did not waste time speaking the praises of Galadriel, and spoke lovingly of the gift of three hairs that you kept by your breast at all times.

You did not understand the hush that fell upon all who heard you.

You did not know—could not have known—the magnitude of such a gift. You did not realize that to ask a strand of hair of the Lady was not unheard of. You had no inkling, that great Elves of old had once upon a time made such requests, and had been thusly and quickly denied.

No one could believe a dwarf was given such an honor. I smiled, for I had known. Had they known you, they would not have been so dumbfounded. Your soul, Gimli, is one of the purest I have ever encountered. Galadriel saw it, and bestowed you with the highest of rewards. No more remarks about your character were made that night.

Remarks about _my_ character, however, were a different story. In the days that followed I could overhear whispers that perhaps I was becoming too Dwarfish. At least once I found myself snapping at one gossipy youth, informing him that he might do well to learn a bit of Dwarfishness himself. I felt guilty afterwards, for had I not been much like that Elf before the quest? Would not I have said such things if our roles were reversed? You told me to put it out of my mind, for certainly ignorance is only the fault of the ignorant if they choose to remain so.

"Let us change minds," you said.

So, we did. At least we tried. Looking back, there was marginal success.

I showed you my favorite childhood haunts. I brought you to the training grounds, and attempted to teach you archery. There was much laughter as we decided that you needed a child-sized bow, but you took it in stride. Although more laughter followed at your attempts to shoot (you loosed a dozen arrows, missed half that, and we almost did not find four of those) your skill at throwing axes was enough to awe those Elves who had come to watch the spectacle.

Elves are not known for using axes. You decided that it should be your turn to have some fun by teaching a few maneuvers to any Elf brave enough. Or at to least me. So, you showed me some forms, and handed me one of your axes. Axe wielding feels more like a feat of juggling than anything else, and I had never been schooled in juggling. I was sloppy, and I was unused to the weight of an axe. Twice, it flew out of my hands, and you narrowly dodged what might have been a devastating blow. But soon I had a basic pattern down, and you suddenly yelled for me to defend, and I barely managed to block three of your blows before you tripped me with the blunt side of your weapon and I toppled backwards. You swung about, and your axe stopped just inches about my head.

You looked down at me and laughed. "Ah little princeling, you should see your face!"

The other Elves were on their feet, looking just as startled as I felt, and surely fearing the Dwarf had injured me.

I called to them as they ran to check on me. "I am fine! Gimli wields his axe as well as I wield my bow!"

Gimli helped me up. "Worry not, friends! I shall be revenged on him later!" I assured my kin.

There was some grumbling about the recklessness of the display, but many were intrigued that you had brought me down so easily. Or rather they were intrigued that a Dwarf had brought me down. I took the opportunity to challenge my kinsman to your axe, and a few surprisingly obliged.

I watched as you danced with your weapon, more graceful than I had ever seen you. You gripped the shaft with strong and nimble hands. I felt a sudden swell of jealousy for the tool in your grasp. I wanted those hands on me, instead. I wanted to feel their heat and strength on my body. I felt flushed and overwhelmed with unbidden desire. I had to excuse myself.

You asked if I had indeed been hurt in our spar, and I assured you I was fine. I just need some time alone.

"Go then. I will be in my chambers. Find me when you are refreshed," you finally said, accepting that I wanted privacy.

I nodded, and ran off, leaving you in confusion. I needed to be alone. What thoughts were these, screaming through my head? There was a fire consuming my heart that could not be quenched—at least, not by anything but your touch. Passion raged through me with terrifying intensity.

Not long after, my father found me in my chambers. He was concerned, and in a rare display of fatherly affection, he embraced me and asked for me tell him my troubles. How could I explain such feelings to my father, who spent so much of his life teaching me that Dwarves were a selfish, deceiving race, uncultured and dirty, with no care for anything other than rarest of minerals? He would never accept that I had fallen for a Dwarf. Oh, by Elbereth, how I had fallen! I knew it then for certain.

I wanted to keep it inside, to try and stifle these feelings, let them burn out. This love was not possible. You were a Dwarf. A Dwarf loves but once, and how many times had you proclaimed your love for the Lady of the Wood?

"Woe is to the Dwarf who's love is one-sided," you had told me. Let the same be said of Elves, Men, and Hobbits.

My father tried to coax answers from me, but I let few escape. I think he may have known, if only a fraction, what trouble lay in my heart. Even so, I could not bring myself to speak openly.

I could not find the words.

It struck me then, why we had departed so suddenly from the Lonely Mountain.

I sought you out the moment my father left me. I didn't even knock when I arrived at your quarters. I was irrationally upset with you. It was easier to be angry than to wallow in self pity. You were startled at my entry.

"You quarreled with your father!" I accused, without any preamble.

Confusion was replaced with trepidation.

"You did not bid him farewell, when we left," I continued. ""Wherefore did you not tell me?"

"I could not. I did not want to burden you."

"It was over me, then, that you argued?"

You glared at me then. "You said that you would not force this. I trusted you would keep your word."

"You do not deny it?"

"No, I do not. And no further shall I speak on the subject," you informed me. "If you wish to continue to count yourself my friend, you will no more."

"Friendship is the cause for my anger!" I was shouting, and I knew it wasn't fair. "If you still count _me_ as friend, you would say what troubles you."

"LEGOLAS!" Your voiced boomed, before you sunk heavily into an armchair, sighing. "It is for the sake of our friendship that I must remain silent!"

Your bellowing somehow managed quelled my anger enough to realize that I needed calm down. Still, I was determined to learn the truth. You buried your face in one of your large hands. You seemed to shrink before me, as I knelt down beside you. I felt awful that I had made you so close yourself. Not knowing how else to say it, or what else I could do, I placed one hand on your knee and leaned in close to your face.

"Please, Gimli," I whispered, "I would not have you suffer alone. Please, Find the words."

You shuddered, but did not pull away. "You shall hate me when I tell you, yet you shall hate me if I do not. It is not fair."

"Never."

You shook your head. I almost thought you would remain silent, but after a moment, you began to speak.

"The night before we left, my father confronted me. He summoned me to his chambers, and announced that he was disgusted with my behavior the night of the feast."

I did not follow.

"I did not understand what he meant. He rattled off the usual—You were an Elf, and I am a Dwarf, and that such friendship was fundamentally unnatural. To frolic with you like a child, freely. He said that you could never be truly trusted, and that you would betray me, eventually. I naturally defended your honor. Then he..." you took a deep breath. It seemed you had come to the hard part.

"Yes?"

"My father, he...he accused me of being in love with you." You were determined to look away from me.

"Oh." What else was I supposed to say? There was a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Well...that is just...silly." Yes, silly. There was no other word for it. "After all, your love is reserved for Lady Galadriel, is it not?"

"Aye," you said, solemnly, "I have love for the Lady. But she is the sun, her light blazing for all to see...and I am but the moon, yearning to touch so rare a gem, but chase her as I may in the sky, I shall be ever scorched by her radiance, and forced to fall back and heal the burns. A moth does not love the flame, Legolas. It is merely enthralled with the beauty. The Lady is dear to me, but admiration and affection is far from truly loving."

"Oh," I said again. Then it finally dawned on me, a seemly impossible thing. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Do not be daft. Do you love me?"

"...aye." It was barely audible. Never had such a small sound bewildered me so. I felt dizzy, happy, scared, and relieved all at once.

"Please, Legolas," you pleaded with me, "Do not hate me. I beg of you. I understand if we cannot be friends, but I could not bare it if you hated me."

"I'm sorry, Gimli. We cannot be friends," you succumbed to a sob, and I turned your face to meet mine. "We cannot be friends," I repeated, my forehead now hovering close to yours, "because I desire _so much more _than that."

Your eyes widened as I brushed my lips to yours, your beard tickling my face, softer than I had expected. I pulled back slowly, waiting for your reaction.

"Legolas? Do not play, I cannot take it."

"I do not play," I insisted. "I love you." I kissed you again, more firmly this time. When I pulled back, you mumbled something along the lines of 'it can't be', so I threw myself into the third kiss and did not stop until you kissed me in return.

We stayed that way for a long time, tasting and holding each other. Hands began roaming—those strong hands I had been craving just hours before—hot and tender on my skin. I pulled you from the chair, never breaking apart, and awkwardly urged you to the bed. I wanted you. I would not let you go.

There was more kissing, lips now wandering to new territory. You nipped my neck and I gasped at the sensation. I ran my hands through your hair and pulled reflexively as you reached down and squeezed my buttocks. It was hot, and soon my clothes were too restrictive. Soon we were disrobed and our bodies pressed together in a heated embrace. I was on fire, panting, needing something I had not felt before. My loins ached with new sensations, and instinctually I rubbed against you, your hardness mirroring my own. I groaned. We were on our sides, grasping each other, not daring to let go. I pulled you to me, needing more than ever to get—

"Closer!" I gasped.

You suddenly parted your legs and pulled me on top of you. The magnitude of what were were doing occurred to me. I halted you from anything further.

"Gimli? You realize what this means, do you not? If we continue," I cautioned, "we shall be bound before Iluvatar, completely. No turning back."

I shall never forget the way you looked at me then, and told me plainly: "We are already bound. Love me fully."

You gave yourself to me then, taking all of me, until we were spent. And soon after, I gave all myself to you.


	5. Fathers

A/N: I am so sorry. The feels. I actually cried while writing this chapter. This little bit is actually heavily inspired by another OTP I have.

Also, I tried to make Thranduil a jerk...but it just didn't happen. I'm going to blame a certain fic I've been reading on that.

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Closer

Chapter 5

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Father has been in to check on me. He does not say much. He still does not understand, even after all this time. I don't know if he can. Time is running out. Perhaps he is simply waiting for that moment when you will finally cease to be a part of the picture. No. I am not giving him his due credit.

Father was outraged when we announced our espousal. For all his ranting, which included the expected disgust and exasperation a union between and Elf and a Dwarf would bring, he was actually even more upset that my lack of propriety. He felt that I should have told him properly of the situation before hand, and even given him the chance—unlikely though it was—to bless such a union. I doubted he would have granted such a blessing, but his point was taken.

He did not disown me, and for that I have been ever grateful. I had been prepared to cut ties if it came to that. You were relieved. Parting with your father, you admitted, was the most painful thing you had ever endured. Yet for that, you assured me, losing my love would have cut far more deeply. That I would not suffer thus was a weight off your shoulders, but mine became heavy, knowing the rift I had caused between you and Gloin.

We did not make our union public, but whispers echoed about the nature of our relationship. We were not ashamed, but our statuses—I, a Prince of the Woodland Realm,; and you, a Lord of Erebor—were too important to let such a 'scandal' complicate matters. So, for many years, the only people to know the truth about 'us' were Thranduil, Thorin, and Gloin.

As he had accepted our friendship, Thorin so accepted our union. You told him upon our second trip to Erebor, some months after our first night together. He laughed heartily, and then hugged us both. Apparently, Gloin was not the only one to have noticed your affection for me. You revealed that after your argument with you father, you had sought counsel with Thorin. Family is important to Dwarves. The King had not been willing to stand between a father and son. Nor did he wish to make me unwelcome in his kingdom. In the end, he had washed his hands of the matter, declaring that you needed to work things out with Gloin. If Gloin accepted me, then I would be welcomed. Until then, he would treat us as guests, but no greater bond was allowed. I felt he was a coward, and slinking away from a difficult situation. He was, but to his credit, he spent much time trying to persuade Gloin to accept us, once you had left.

Gloin said nothing when you greeted him. He did not utter a sound when you told him. He remained silent as you pleaded with him. In the end, he just turned away, leaving you broken and me to pick up the pieces. I loved you as best I could, physically and emotionally, trying to fill the empty space he had left. Still, it was weeks before I was graced with a true smile.

It came when we received word that Thorin had granted your request to establish a Dwarf Colony at the Glittering Caves. Few things made you happier than that place. Elessar and the people of Rohan wished to establish trade routes between Erebor and Minas Tirith, as well as with the newly-named Greenwood. My own father had allowed me to make arrangements to bring Elves to Ithilien for similar reasons.

Both these places held promise for us. They would become our havens. Our duties oft kept us apart, especially during the first years of colonization, and always the separation was dreadful. After such long periods, one of us would make the trip from one realm to the other, and we would fall into each other's arms, joining like drops of water. It was sometimes days before we would emerge from our rooms. No one questioned what we did in private—it was an ill-kept secret—and few took the time to judge. In our new homes, our loved flourished.

For many years, I was happier than I had ever recalled, but your joy was marred by Gloin's rejection. Then came that message from Erebor, urging a hasty return to the Lonely Mountain. When I asked the matter you replied stoically.

"My father is dying."

You took me with you. I was perhaps the last thing Gloin would want to be reminded of in his last days, yet I could not let you face his death alone. I would not abandon you.

When we arrived, Thorin greeted us.

"He is in his chambers. He does not have long. He has been asking for you."

I squeezed your shoulder, when you hesitated. Neither you nor I knew what to expect. I kissed you, not caring who saw, before urging you to pass through the door, promising I would be right outside. I waited for many minutes, trying like mad to hear through the stone door, to no avail. Dwarf doors are impressively soundproof. I eventually made myself comfortable, sitting against the wall on the floor. Thorin joined me.

"I had hoped Gloin would have called for you to come sooner," he said. "Alas, Gloin is more stubborn than most."

I smiled weakly. "I have grown used to such stubbornness."

"Gloin is a good man," he said, "I did not think he would take this grudge to the grave. Not if it meant of losing his son."

"Gimli is losing his father." I stated bitterly.

"Aye." He didn't say anything after that. Thorin was losing kin as well. I did not wish to further the conversation. Then without warning, I _did _hear something. A booming voice ordering, "Bring him!" and the door opened scarcely a second after. You pulled me in before I could say anything.

Gloin was on his bed, surrounded by his worldly possessions. They were stacked like a monument to his wealth, honoring his life's achievements. I realized that this was Dwarven custom, to allow the dying to gaze upon their possessions. A Dwarf with wealth could rest easy, knowing his material value.

Gloin locked his eyes on me.

"So here is the Elf who stole my son," he accused. He did not look pleased, but I could not describe him as truly angry.

"At your service," I replied.

He snorted. "_At your service_, indeed." Gloin seemed to be trying to stare me down, but I refused to let him. Finally he just lay his head back and stared at the high stone ceiling. "Gimli brings you back to Erebor in the hour of my death. Why do you come whence you are not welcomed?"

It was a challenge, I realized. One we both issued. I have never been one to back down.

"I come not for you, but for your son."

"And what does my son need of you?"

"That which you refuse to give him."

"And what do I deny him?"

"Comfort. Acceptance. Love."

"And you give him these things?"

"Freely."

"Why?"

"Selfishness."

Gloin did not expect that answer. "You contradict yourself."

I resolutely shook my head. "To deny him these things, is to deny myself. To let him suffer, is to suffer. Indeed, I am selfish, but do not let that fact cause Gimli misery."

Gloin took a slow breath. "Selfishness," he said. "We are both selfish." He looked at you then. You were quiet, but you looked like a cloud threatening to thunder.

"Gimli. I am old. I am dying. I have my wealth. I have lived a full life. I won the heart of the most beautiful Dwarf maiden in Middle Earth, and sired a son." He glanced at me, before continuing. "And selfishness has lost me him." He coughed. "Come, before I die, I would regain my son." Then he looked pointedly at me. "Both of my sons."

Acceptance was the last thing either of us expected. My heart leapt. You jumped to your father's side and wept. In those last hours, there was joy in the face of death, as I was welcomed to the House of Durin.

I bothers me, that it took death to reunite you with your father. I used to get lost in thought, thinking that there must have been some way to have repaired your relationship with him sooner, to have spared you the pain of it all earlier. You chastised me, for there was nothing I could have done. It had, and always had been, Gloin's decision.

Father has entered the room again. I feel him staring at me, even though I do not look at him. You still sleep heavily. He says my name, and at first I do not answer. When I do, it is simply to recognize his presence, and allow him to sit beside me.

"How fares he?"

He's not even looking at me as he says it. Actually, he's looking at you, which surprises me.

"He is dying." He knows that. The question was hollow, more of an excuse to talk, really.

He nods, then continues to try and make pointless conversation. Father really has never been good at this.

He compliments the 'blanket' that covers you. I tell him that it is a tapestry of your family line. I don't go into much detail, as I doubt he really cares that much. I suppose I might still have said more than he needed to hear, because now he is commenting about my extensive knowledge of Dwarf culture.

Somehow I feel that you were luckier. You lost your father, first to intolerance, then to death. But in the end, he had accepted you fully. Mine still dances on a fine line between acceptance and rejection. He has never called you 'son'.

"I am sorry."

I look at Thranduil. I am confused, as though the words were spoken in Khuzdul and not Sindarin.

"You think I hate him. You think I only see some dirty, gold-digging caver dweller. For a time, that was true." He is staring at me with a look he reserves for the most serious of conversations. "I hated that you bound yourself to him. I hated that I could not undo it. I wanted him gone. So I tried to make that happen."

What is he talking about? He answers before I can ask.

"I offered him gold, jewels—even land, as a last ditch effort—if only he would leave, and never see you again."

Before I can voice my outrage he continues. "It was wrong of me. I ask your forgiveness."

"Why do you tell me this now?" Does he not think it will naught but upset me?

"I do not know. Perhaps this is the last time I can tell you. The last time it will matter."

I look down at my hands, now fisted on my lap, clutching the fabric of my robes. My knuckles are turning white, a physical manifestation of the anger I am feeling.

"Do you know what he said to me?"

"No," I say. "He never spoke of this to me."

Father smiles. "I suppose he wanted to spare your feelings. He told me, 'I would trade away The Lady's gift, before I would ever give up your son. And I shall not give him up, ever."

He wears a sad smile now, and he strokes my hair briefly.

"I know few who would show such devotion. He has loved you well, and for that I give thanks. But now I fear the pain of his passing will ruin you."

I feel my anger dissolve. Father is not trying to upset me. He is trying to console me. I am grateful, and my anger has turned to something more poignant.

"Ada," I whisper, voice shaking. I want to say more but nothing comes. Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe he does understand.

I rest my head on his shoulder.


End file.
